


Can't Win A Battle For A Lost Cause

by vampiredad



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Vampire Lambert, Vampires, i spit on canon, no im not following the canon rules around vampires because i dont care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampiredad/pseuds/vampiredad
Summary: The life of a witcher is the only life Lambert was ever given the chance to know. He hates it, he'd leave it all behind if he could. But shitty taverns, far too little coin, and killing monsters is all he knows.What is he supposed to do when he becomes the very thing he was made to hunt?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Fucking vampires.

Monsters are so much easier to deal with when they’re stupid, like nekkers. Nekkers are idiots that would probably walk into a sword on their own if you gave them the chance. Vampires are smart, which is half the reason Lambert hates taking contracts on them. They know how to hide, or even worse, they know when they don’t need to. The whole damn duchy knows the duke’s new wife is a vampire, but none can get close enough to kill her. So what do they do? They hire a witcher, someone who can add more fuel to this political bonfire and walk away unscathed, right? Yeah, sure, that’s what we’ll go with.

From this spot in the lower gardens of the duke’s mansion, Lambert can see the vampire on the balcony. The guards are well aware that he’s there, they’re the ones that hired him, but they couldn’t let him inside in case a servant alerted the duke of an unwanted visitor. So here he sits, hidden among the bushes, watching. She’s ballsy, this vampire, sinking her teeth into his neck under the moonlight. The power she has over the duchy must have gone to her head, or the blood, but he knows he can’t underestimate her. Blood is almost like alcohol for a higher vampire, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be weak, if anything, this is going to be even more of a pain in the ass.

The duke stumbles back into their bedroom and the creature turns her face to the moon, her skin a ghostly white and nearly shimmering under the pale light. It seems to pass right through her, as she casts no shadow. Lambert shifts his weight under him and stays low as he creeps along the wall. The ivy that clings to the bricks is strong enough for him to haul himself up to the balcony. As quiet as he can try to be, he’d be an idiot to think she didn’t notice him.

“Tell me, witcher,” she says, opening her icy blue eyes but not turning away from the sky. “How much did they offer you for my head? I’d like to know how much they thought I’d be worth.”

“Looking to buy your way out of this?” Lambert replies. “I’ll warn you, it won’t be cheap.”

“Please, witcher. Killing you will be easier… and more fun.”

Lambert barely has time to roll his eyes before the vampire launches herself at him and they tumble over the edge of the balcony. He was really hoping she wouldn’t say that. He hits the ground with a grunt, barely holding the snarling duchess back. He mumbles something under his breath and suddenly she is launched across the garden, hitting the far wall and slumping against it for a moment. Lambert draws his sword and rolls his neck, considering what he might do with his reward for killing her. Well, not that he can really kill her. Hopefully her body being burned will teach her a lesson while she spends a few decades regenerating.

Her head lolls for a moment, but then she becomes very still. Her neatly manicured nails grow into long, razor sharp claws. The delicate features of her face are drawn back into a hideous, animalistic form. She lifts her head with a disgusting grin. Lambert centres himself and raises his sword as she launches herself at him once again. The duke’s blood has her all riled up. She’s crazed, swiping her claws at him and screeching, only to be met with his blade, at the very least redirecting her attacks away from his body. The witcher can’t risk taking his eyes off her for a second, lest he lose an arm to her talons. She’s lightning fast, but she is at a disadvantage. If she slips up, his sword will tear through her like paper.

His blade catches against her arm. She roars, more out of indignation than pain, but her pause gives him an opening. He surges forwards and his blade plunges through her lithe figure, lodged just beneath her ribcage. A crimson stain blooms across her abdomen and her breath leaves her lungs suddenly. Her claws recede, followed by the rough features of her face. She assumes the gentle beauty she used to get herself into this mess in the first place. Lambert smirks cruelly and cocks his head.

“Fucking vampires. You’re all the same,” he says. “You all think you’re the biggest and baddest thing out there. It’s pathetic, really, how cocky you all are. I’ve faced far worse things than you, sweetheart. You really think your kind is the worst on the Continent?”

His words light a cold fire in her dying eyes. She grins, baring her fangs.

“See for yourself.”

She grips the hilt of his sword and pulls herself into it, the blade sliding through her body with an obscene sound. With the last of her strength she throws her weight forward, opens her mouth and latches onto Lambert’s neck. He groans out a curse, expecting to feel a drag against his skin. He’s been bitten before, but those before her quickly learned that witcher blood tastes vile. But he feels no such drag from his veins, rather he feels a burning sensation spreading across his skin. Suddenly he feels dizzy and short of breath. He feels her smile wickedly against his throat. His knees buckle beneath him. The last thing he hears is a cruel laugh, a sputtering cough, and the sound of his own body hitting the ground.

~

Lambert wakes with a yelp in an unfamiliar room. He grips the sheets and feels something sharp pressing into his palm through the linen. As he recoils, he notices the pointed nails on his fingers and frowns. Then his memory comes flooding back.

The vampire. His hand finds a bandage wrapped loosely around his neck. She bit him, but didn’t feed. No, he felt something going in instead. It burned like hellfire through his veins. He vaguely remembers being picked up by the guards… then everything ached… he vomited a few times, he thinks. It wasn’t unlike the trials that made him a witcher. With wide eyes he stumbles out of the bed and, in the soft light from the window, looks for a shadow. Nothing. He looks up at the window now, expecting to see his reflection, but yet again, there is nothing.

Shit.

_Shit._

He runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes blood. His canines have grown long and sharp.

_Fuck._

She turned him. He’s a vampire.

He runs a hand through his hair. What the fuck is he meant to do now? He was made to hunt monsters, it’s all he knows, and now… he is one. Destiny really can’t give him a fucking break, huh? He sighs and sits back down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. What are his brothers going to think? They wouldn’t try to hurt him… would they? He’s their brother…

He stops that train of thought the moment tears threaten to well up in his eyes. Now isn’t the time. He needs to figure out what to do. Perhaps there’s someone who can help him… His mind wanders back to his brother’s, but instead of getting emotional, he latches onto a vague memory. Geralt’s friend, what was his name…? Regis. That was it. A higher vampire that Geralt had befriended on his search for Ciri all those years ago. He mentioned he had taken up residence in Nilfgaard. Lambert can think of no better person to go to than another vampire.

Well, he can. He wants to go to his brothers. He wants to find them and just hear them say that they still love him. That’s all he wants and all he fears he won’t get. How could anyone love him like this?

Lambert shakes his head and stands, finding his things in the corner of the room. His medallion rests atop his jacket. He puts it on and clutches it to his chest, ignoring the feeling that he shouldn’t wear it at all. He dresses quickly, collects his things, and emerges from the room into a shop he recognises. The healer’s. He bought a few herbs from the woman who now stands at her workbench across the room. She looks up at him with a friendly smile.

“You’re up,” she states. “Good. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” he lies quickly. “I should be on my way.”

“A moment, witcher. I assure you I won’t breathe a word of it, but… can witchers be turned if they’re bitten by a vampire?”

“No,” he lies once again. “Our bodies reject their… venom, I guess you could call it. We can’t be turned.”

He notices her glance at the floor behind him as he makes for the door.

“Very well,” she says carefully. “I wish you the best in your travels.”

~

Nilfgaard, to Regis’ surprise, is quite peaceful. Winneburg is a big enough place for him to fade into the background, but small enough that he doesn’t run the risk of getting involved in any silly political games again. His home is humble, but thankfully filled with books and things to keep the endless days passing by quicker.

It came as a relief to him to live a normal life again, or at least the mirage of one. He is generally regarded as one of the more reliable surgeons in town, as he had studied enough to know that blood-letting and leeches never work and opts for the use of medicinal herbs and salves for wounds. After all, he’d had almost 400 years to perfect his trade.

He knows he has a visitor well before the knock at the door sounds through the small house. He hears footsteps, hurried and nervous. Regis closes his book and sets it aside, expecting someone in need of his care. Instead, on the other side of the door stands a witcher. He has dark brown hair, a scar across his right eye, and he wears the same medallion that he saw around the neck of an old friend.

There’s a look in the man’s yellow eyes he’s never seen in a witcher before. Fear. Geralt was good at hiding his emotions, brilliant at it. Over the years he saw many things in his friends’ eyes; joy, despair, anger, content, but never fear. That was the one thing he never showed. But this one seems unable to hide it.

“Regis?” he asks.

“Yes, witcher?”

Given a moment to analyse the man before him, Regis quickly realises why he is here. Small details give him away. The bluish tint to his skin that makes him look far paler than he should be. The small cuts around his lips. The pointed nails that he digs into his palms as he looks around nervously.

“I need your help,” he pleads.

“I know. Come in, we have much to discuss.”

He stands aside and lets the man in, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. It’s not uncommon to see such things when someone is turned, but he’s never seen a witcher turned. He can’t imagine what this must be like for him.

“What is your name, witcher?” he asks as he closes the door.

“Lambert,” he says. “I’m one of Geralt’s brothers.”

Regis can’t help a small smile as he says, “Yes, I do remember him mentioning you. He spoke of his little brother quite fondly.”

Lambert seems to grow even more nervous at the mention of his brother. Regis drops the subject and gets to the point.

“How long ago were you bitten?”

“A week or so.”

“Where? Show me, it’s not uncommon for bites to get infected.”

Lambert sheds his leather jacket and rubs his neck before tilting his head to bare the scar. He had spent what little coin he could spare on a new jacket with a higher collar. Regis notes his lack of eye contact. Anxiety isn’t a good look on a witcher.

“That healed quite nicely, actually. Of course. Now, where was this?”

“A duchy in Maecht. The duke’s new wife was a higher vampire. She was slowly draining him of—”

Lambert pauses and curses under his breath. His fingers come away from his lips bloody.

“Pull your fangs back a little,” Regis says. “It should feel like tensing the roof of your mouth, and it might hurt a bit, but try it.”

Lambert finally looks up at him with a look of surprise, like he didn’t expect to be met with compassion. He makes an odd face as he tries, then clamps a hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. Regis chuckles slightly.

“I told you it would hurt.”

“Yeah, a bit…” Lambert grumbles

“You’ll get used to it. Now, a higher vampire in Maecht? What has become of her?” Regis asks.

“I assume the duke’s guards burned her body like I told them to. It’ll at least put her out of action for a few decades.”

“Good. I assume you know there is nothing I can do for you in terms of curing you—”

“Yes, I know,” Lambert snaps. “I just… I needed someone to… I needed…”

Now that he thinks of it, he can’t explain exactly why he came here. He just thought seeking out someone who knew better than he did what was happening to him would be a good idea.

“Guidance,” Regis finishes for him, his tone comforting and soft. “That is what you’re looking for. Guidance and reassurance. Would I be right in thinking so?”

Lambert nods meekly. Regis offers him a comforting smile.

“Fret not, dear witcher,” he says. “You can stay with me while you find your footing. I may not have been turned myself, but I can understand what this must be like for you.”

Lambert resembles a puppy more closely than a wolf. He looks far more vulnerable than Regis had ever pictured him. Geralt had described a man with biting humour, a tendency for sharp remarks, and more often than not, a cruel smirk. But the man Regis sees before him is, for lack of a better word, broken.

“Thank you, Regis,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck again.

“Come, Lambert. Let’s get you settled in. I have a spare room, you can stay as long as you like.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lambert shifts in his chair by the small hearth, peering into the book in his hands. Not reading, simply staring. Regis suggested he read some books written by his ancestors on his— _their_ race’s history, but he can’t concentrate.  
There’s a strange sense of pressure inside his head, like his thoughts are not only rattling through his mind but pressing against his skull and demanding his attention no matter how much he’d like to ignore them. It deprives him of sleep, strips him of an appetite, and threatens to consume his every waking moment. He feels like a child again, constantly living in fear, but he no longer knows what he’s afraid of. At least when he was a boy, he could put a name to it. Now, he fears that what he is afraid of may simply be himself. He feels as though he’s at war with himself and everything he knows. 

“Lambert!”

Regis’ voice rescues him from his thoughts. He closes the book and sets it aside, following the vampire’s call to the kitchen. In the weeks he has spent in Nilfgaard, Regis has shown him immeasurable patience and compassion. He seeks only to help Lambert and seems to know his limits without him having to say a thing.

“You know I am more than happy to let you stay here, but it is only fair that you pull your weight. Would you be so kind as to cook dinner?” the vampire asks.

“I don’t know that you would want me to do that,” Lambert says with a scoff. “My brothers always say I can’t cook anything but noodles, and I can’t even do that right.”

Regis smiles with amusement. “Not to worry,” he says. “Allow me to show you. I suppose cooking for much more than survival isn’t something taught extensively at Kaer Morhen.”

Lambert begins to think that Regis’ patience really is endless as he guides him step by step through making dinner, even coaxing a laugh out of the younger vampire for the first time in days. 

After dinner, even Regis finds himself unable to concentrate on reading. He doesn’t want to push Lambert, for he can tell that right now he is much weaker than he will ever admit, but he has to start the conversation somewhere. He has to know what’s going on in Lambert’s head if he wants to really help him. And he does. Perhaps he makes a terrible habit of thinking himself responsible for others’ well-being, but he truly does want to help Lambert. He sees snippets of the dry, sharp humour Geralt had told him of, but it quickly vanishes beneath a layer of misery that seems to cling to the younger man’s back. He sees hints of the man Lambert truly is— or was before all of this happened. Regis wants to help him get that back.

“Do forgive me, Lambert,” he starts. “I’m told I’ve a habit for analysing people rather critically. I cannot help but notice that… to be frank, you do not match the man Geralt once described to me. He said, you were incredibly witty, had a sharp and ruthless sense of humour, but were also quite closed off and distrusting of others. I’ve not seen any of that from you. You’ve given me far more trust than most people do even without knowing what I am and you seem to be seeking to let someone in, rather than shutting them out. I have my suspicions as to why, even though you may not know the reasons yourself. You are a witcher, after all, and you are Geralt’s brother. He was terrible at recognising his own emotions and allowing himself to feel them, opting instead for repressing them and ignoring the fact that he has them at all. I highly doubt you are much different.”

Lambert doesn’t respond. Regis is right. Painfully so. They all know that the whole “witcher’s don’t have emotions” thing is bullshit, but it’s far easier to cling to that idea and convince yourself of it, to ignore the things you feel and just get on with the job. They’d all be miserable wrecks if they didn’t.

“Would you like me to carry on, or would you like to try talking about it yourself?” Regis asks

.After a moment of pause as the witcher stares blankly into the fire, he decides to speak, “I feel like… I don’t understand what I am anymore. As much as I hate the life I was forced into, it was easy to hold onto being a witcher, because that’s all I know. But now… I am what I was made to hunt and I don’t understand anything anymore. How am I meant to hunt monsters when I am the monster myself?”

Regis can see the desperation in Lambert’s eyes. Those eyes watch him as he seems to recoil at the word “monster” and takes a moment to formulate his response.

“Monster is a… peculiar term,” he says. “You, as a witcher, use it as a label for creatures you are paid to seek out and kill, yet you call a man a monster not because he is a creature or because he is cursed, but because he does vile things. I am of the understanding that a monster is not what one is, but what one does. I do not believe that a griffin is a monster just because of what it is, or a ghoul, or a nightwraith, or any other creature. I believe that a creature capable of choosing between right and wrong who then chooses to do cruel things is a monster.”

Regis sets his book aside and grips the younger vampire’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him. “You are not a monster, Lambert. _We_ are not monsters. We do not have to be. You are still a good man because you choose to be one.”

Lambert nods slowly, taking a moment to let the words sink into his mind, though he doubts he will ever truly believe them. Then he scoffs softly to himself. 

“What is it?” Regis asks.

“You sound like you disapprove of witchers, but you’re friends with two of them.”  
Lambert hesitates to let the word “witcher” slip from his mouth. Regis notices, but thinks better of commenting. Not tonight.

“I don’t necessarily disagree with your profession, some creatures that do not belong in this world need to be… dealt with, but what you are not taught at the School of The Wolf is the idea of coexistence. That would be counter-intuitive to your trade, and over my many years in this world I have come to realise that this idea is beyond humanity’s grasp.”

Lambert’s brow furrows questioningly at him. Regis brushes away the notion with a wave of his hand. “Ah, a discussion for another night. You will grow to see the world similarly to how I do with time. For now, how are you finding our history?”

“I was never one for academics, really,” Lambert says truthfully, glancing at the book on the small table beside him. “But… it’s interesting to hear about things like the Conjunction from another perspective.”

They discuss things well into the night, things Lambert never imagined himself learning. Regis is as eager as ever to teach and share his knowledge. For a moment, the young vampire’s inner quarrels are forgotten and he feels something resembling peace, and revels in it.

“Yes? Oh, what have you gotten yourself into now, Aleksy?”

Regis shakes his head fondly as a boy nursing bloodied knuckles and a crooked nose stands before him. His home doubles as his shop. He would have liked to have had somewhere separate to work, but he has to make do. It’s not as if his job brings about a lot of coin anyway. He mostly makes home medicines for housewives when their children are sick or scrape their knees. He rarely sees much more than a slip of the knife while cooking or a broken bone from a fall from a tree— other than Aleksy, a teenage boy who thinks himself quite the hero and frequently gets himself into trouble.

“In my defense, Master Regis, it wasn’t my fault!” Aleksy says, smiling despite the blood dripping into his mouth as Regis invites him inside and gathers his things to clean the boy up.

“Yes, yes, and every time you say that, it turns out that it was undeniably your own fault, because you like to involve yourself in matters you absolutely shouldn’t be involved in,” the vampire says affectionately. “Up, on the bench. Let me have a look at you.”

Aleksy sits himself on the workbench and rubs over his sore knuckles, beginning to recount his tale. He has a good heart, this boy. Regis can only hope this cruel world doesn’t break it.

The coppery stench of blood fills Regis’ nose. Thankfully it’s not enough to warrant a reaction. He’s become accustomed to his bloodlust, able to push it down and far out of his mind while he works.

Lambert is not so lucky.  
It takes a few minutes for the smell to reach him in his small room, but the moment it does, Lambert feels his fangs extend, stinging as they slide further past his gums. He hisses in pain and then the feeling hits him: a hunger more desperate than he’s ever experienced, bubbling in the pit of his stomach like he’s swallowed boiling water. It’s almost painful. He groans and doubles over, trying to work past the fog that threatens to cloud his judgement and force him to act on far more animalistic desires. He can’t tell what’s more terrifying, losing control or the consequences if he does. The longer he fights the feeling, the more he feels like he’s going to lose.

Regis holds Alekys’s jaw gently as he wipes the blood from his nose with a rag, muttering something about the boy costing his dear mother far too much coin. As he glances down at the red stain on the rag, his heart jumps into his throat.  
Lambert.  
He’s not one to swear, but a curse slips from his lips as he hears the lock on Lambert’s door slide home. Aleksy looks at him with worry, but he simply shakes his head and hurries on. He’s a fool to have forgotten about Lambert, even more so to have neglected to warn him. He sends the boy on his way quickly before approaching the door. On the other side, the young vampire is keeled over on the floor with his arms wrapped around his head, sweat leaving dark patches on his clothes and a sheen on his brow, trying desperately to keep himself under control. The sound of Regis knocking on the door and shaking it in its place is simultaneously deafening and barely audible. Even his own breath sounds too loud to him. Everything is too much. Then everything is nothing at all.

Regis isn’t proud of what happened next. He doesn’t like to be destructive in any way unless it’s completely necessary or deserved. Selective pacifism is a… coping mechanism, he supposes. But what he did wasn’t necessary and left a bitter taste in his mouth. In a panic, he had ripped the door clean off its hinges, only to find Lambert unconscious on the floor. The action, though it was understandable, awakened a deep, aching regret in the pit of his stomach. It was a reminder of what he is— no. What humanity thinks he is. He is not a monster. He will never think of himself as one. They, on the other hand, always will.

He knows it’s irrational for him to feel so awful, but he can’t help it. He simply has to deal with it until it goes away and make it up to himself with good deeds. That seems to be the driving factor behind many of the things he does. Sometimes he wonders if it’s an effort to prove some kind of point. Not all, but far too many other vampires are violent, destructive creatures. Some can’t help it, some can and hurt people for the sake of it. Either way, humanity has assumed an overarching hatred towards them, which he struggles to blame them for, considering his own bloody past.  
Perhaps he tries so hard to help people in an attempt to separate himself from his own kind, to convince both humanity and himself that he is not violent or destructive, that he is, somehow, something else altogether.  
Perhaps he’d prefer to be like them.   
Or perhaps he’s over-analysing things again.

The wolf lay in his bed for hours, utterly exhausted, and only roused by the smell of Regis’ cooking. His head aches like he’s been drinking for the past three days and his legs tremble slightly beneath him as he stands. He can almost hear Vesemir’s gruff voice echo from the edges of his memories, telling him to ‘walk it off, a witcher doesn’t have time to be weary.’ With a huff, he forces leaden legs to move and carry him to the kitchen. His body fights the urge to curl up and go back to sleep with a hunger that makes his stomach churn.   
Regis glances up at Lambert as he leans into the doorframe to hold himself upright. He manages a small, worried smile.

“It’s good to see you back on your feet,” he says. “I must offer my apologies, I should have warned you. My negligence could have cost that boy his life, at no fault of yours. Bloodlust is… not an experience I can describe with words.”

“I think I can,” Lambert replies.

Regis fixes him with a curious look and asks, “How would you describe it?”

“Fucking awful.”

Regis laughs and reaches for a ladle to serve up some stew. He can practically hear Lambert’s stomach gurgling. 

“Well, yes, that is one way to put it,” he admits. “What you did was astounding, Lambert, do you understand that?”

“I passed out, so no, not really.”

“It took me almost two hundred years to learn to control those instincts. I’m over four hundred now, and some days I still struggle to keep myself under control. You’ve only been a vampire for three weeks, and I assure you, falling unconscious is a far more desirable outcome than being overcome by bloodlust.”

Lambert assumes an inquisitive look, but says nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Regis asks.

“I mean, I knew you were old, but- fuck, Regis, I didn’t realise you were _that_ old.”


End file.
